Lark Rolls It Crookedy

Squeak! went the red wool ball. Lark pounced on it, rolled over twice, and squeezed it again. Lark was a puppy with one white paw and a tail that knocked things over whenever he was happy. That ball was his favorite thing in the whole Whispering Forest. It had a bald patch and one loose thread, so it never rolled straight. It wobbled sideways, every time, as if it were in too much of a hurry to get anywhere.

"Lark," called Rafa from the porch. "Come and meet somebody." Rafa held a basket, and inside the basket was a small gray heap with two ears and two green eyes. "This is Pebble," said Rafa. "She's our new pet. She's come to live with us."

Lark wagged so hard that the broom by the door fell over with a clatter. He bounced up to the basket. Pebble said pfft! and sneezed, then tucked her face under her own tail.

"Gently," said Rafa. "She's very little."

Lark tried to be gentle. He sat. He waited. He brought his red wool ball and dropped it into the basket. Squeak, squeak! Pebble sprang out of the basket and hid under the woodpile.

"That was a bit too fast for her," said Rafa. "She doesn't know you yet."

Lark took his ball back to his mat and put one paw on it. That was his ball, and if she didn't like the way he played, he would keep it all to himself. He squeaked it once, quietly, just to check it still worked. Squeak. It did.

Evening came along. The fireflies drifted up out of the moss, one by one, blinking on and off like small slow lanterns. The leaves turned over in their sleep. Lark lay with his chin on the ball. He rolled it once. It wobbled sideways and stopped. Rolling it alone wasn't much of a game.

Willa the owl came down onto the fence post without a sound, because owls do everything without a sound. Willa knew every path in the Whispering Forest by heart, and she knew puppies too. "What's that ball doing all by itself?" she asked. "It's mine," said Lark. "Mm," said Willa. "It looks lonely."

Lark thought about that. He thought about it for a long time, the way puppies do, with his ears flopping and his nose wrinkled. Then he picked up the ball, walked slowly, slowly, and lay down near the woodpile with his chin on his one white paw. Very gently, he rolled the ball. One small roll.

A gray nose poked out. Two green eyes watched. Lark rolled the ball again, soft as a sigh, and it went crookedy, because of the bald patch and the loose thread. Pebble crept out, one paw and then another, and patted the ball.

"It's a good ball," said Lark. "You roll it. Then I roll it. Then you." He nudged it to her. It went sideways into a mossy hollow. Pebble scooped it out with her paw and nudged it back to him, and it went sideways the other way.

Squeak, said the ball. Lark flopped down flat with happiness. Pebble bounced on his tail, and he bounced up again, and they rolled the ball back and forth, back and forth, crookedy, until the fireflies drifted all the way down to the grass.

Rafa sat on the porch steps, laughing. "Well," said Rafa. "Turns out a wibbly ball is a two-paw game."

Then the sky turned soft and blue-dark, and the forest went quiet. Willa ruffled her feathers and said, "Bedtime for small things." Lark carried the ball to the basket and set it inside, and Pebble climbed in after it and curled up with her chin on the bald patch.

"Move over a bit," said Lark. "There's room." There was room. Pebble made a sleepy squeak, the smallest one of the night, and Lark closed his eyes with his nose against her warm gray back.

Outside, the fireflies blinked slower and slower, and the leaves turned over in their sleep. Inside the basket, the new pet tucked her paws and slept the sleep of a kitten who feels at home, and the red wool ball sat between two small warm animals, where it belonged.